Post Mortem
by Pawthorn
Summary: Warning: Major Spoilers and Canon Character Death-ish. A series of 221 word drabbles focusing on character's reactions to The Reichenbach Fall. No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
1. Brother

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Brother**

When the small, attention-seeking bundle of blankets and drool had first entered his life, a very young Mycroft Holmes had requested that it be sent back. His request was laughingly denied, and the little problem was admitted into his family.

As the years passed and the little problem grew bigger, Mycroft resubmitted his request many times—when grubby fingers pilfered his pristine books; when experiments were conducted in his room, with his belongings, and on his person; when the frosting disappeared from atop his piece of cake while his back was turned.

He eventually realized that his parents would never fulfill his request.

When he was older still, he was sorely tempted to fulfill the request himself—when great powers of deduction were flaunted for ordinary policemen; when undignified laughter broke out as he entered a room; when his diet was repeatedly brought up.

Instead, he learned to use his lifelong problem to _solve_ problems. The problem became generally more of a help than a nuisance as time went on, and Mycroft accepted his role as the keeper of one of the most brilliant annoyances in modern history.

Now, staring numbly at the text in his hand, he realized that his original request had at last been approved.

He sent up an urgent request to the highest authority to revoke it.


	2. Bygones

_AN: Thanks to__ lazy-shika for pointing out that these aren't really 221 B drabbles, they're just 221 words long :) The story description now fits that. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Bygones**

It started with Dr. Watson.

During a conversation—a rather explosive conversation—he planted a seed of doubt in Sally Donovan's mind, and it was taking root.

She went to work.

Every case the freak had ever worked on—even if he had dismissed it as dull—every witness he had spoken to, every shred of evidence he had scrounged up, every confession he had drawn out, she checked and double checked.

Every murderer he had put in prison.

Every priceless possession he had recovered.

Every victim he had saved.

He could have been orchestrating all of these crimes… but it would have been incredibly difficult and complex. Most of them couldn't have even drawn a profit. But maybe he was only behind some of the crimes. It was possible…

But there was no evidence for it. Not one scrap.

Donovan had been as astonished by the freak's abilities as anyone when he first started. She was also quickly fed up with how he walked all over everyone—her, her coworkers, her _boss_. It had been appealing to believe that he was terrible through and through, that even the crime solving had been a sham. As amazing as his crime scene deductions had been, the idea that he had both fabricated _and_ solved these crimes without being caught…

That was unbelievable.


	3. Bottle

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Bottle**

His first drink had been in remembrance.

The rest he drank to forget.

Forget the giddy amazement he had felt when he first saw the consulting detective in action and the feeling of almost fond frustration he grew to associate with the man over time.

Forget the hopefulness that John Watson had brought, that the great man was becoming good as well.

Forget the feeling of wrongness in his gut when he brought Donovan's suspicions to the Chief Superintendent and the look of sick disappointment on John's face at the resulting arrest.

Forget the panic he felt watching the handcuffed pair disappear into the night—fear for John, fear for the criminal himself, fear for the whole bloody city of London, and for his own sanity.

Forget the call from St. Bart's.

Forget the blood on the sidewalk and seeing John out of his mind with grief.

Forget the funeral, where he felt like an outsider in the surprisingly large crowd. It seemed that the dead man had a faithful following. Lestrade didn't think he deserved to be counted among them—not anymore. John wouldn't even meet his eyes.

Forget that he had helped drive the most brilliant man he'd ever known to suicide.

He stared at the empty glass, and all he could remember was what he wanted to forget.


	4. Bilingual

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Bilingual**

He'd taken a year of German in college.

It wasn't enough to grant him fluency, but he had a fair grasp of its structure and vocabulary. This knowledge came in handy sometimes.

Other times, it got doors slammed in his face by an upstart consulting detective.

Anderson had been frustrated when the man belittled him, insulted him, and generally abused him at crime scenes. But really, he was just as angry at Lestrade for allowing the man free reign.

He had never hated the consultant.

A part of Anderson always longed to be recognized as an equal by the genius. He had fantasized about arriving at a crime scene and putting together the pieces faster than everyone else. He would solve the case, the whole room would look at him in astonishment, and the consultant would nod at him in respect and never call him an idiot again.

It would never happen now.

He'd been shocked that the consultant had taken his own life. It didn't seem to fit with the man's character, but desperate people were unpredictable. Still, it was strange…

Then, he read Kitty Riley's exposé.

_Rich Brook_

_Reichenbach_

The words jumped out of the headline like a mocking joke, and Anderson knew that the Yarders had been played for the fools the consultant had always said they were.


	5. Boys

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Boys**

What a pair they had made, her boys.

One as active and dramatic as you could find—throwing himself and his things all about—the other as quite and still as he could make himself.

One drew attention in his hectic, brilliant way, while the other was so calm and controlled that he drew attention not meaning to.

One was a quite a fine actor; the other could rarely stand to be anything other than what he was.

They didn't always get on, but what pair of boys ever does? Hours of gunshots or screeching violin or stomping about would eventually end with a single, almighty bellow, or footsteps down the stairs and out the door. There was annoyance and coldness, disappointment and disregard, but neither of them really wanted to leave. As different as they were, you couldn't find a better team.

One talked, and the other listened.

One lead, and the other followed.

One doubted, and the other believed.

One made grand leaps from tiny details, which the other sometime challenged and sometimes marveled at.

When times got rough, one fought for her while the other cared for her.

Now, all that had changed.

Both had fallen.

Both were gone from the flat.

Both were cold and distant.

Both had been hurt beyond repair.

She had lost them both.


	6. Blank

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Blank**

He was back.

Again.

Back to the tiny hotel room.

Back to seeing his therapist.

Back to staring at the blinking cursor with nothing to say.

The first week or two after, he couldn't go anywhere without someone from the press following him. Lestrade had offered to make the vultures clear off, and maybe he had because they were no longer circling. John didn't know or care. It was far easier to pretend certain people didn't exist. Like Lestrade. Donovan. Anderson. Mycroft.

He couldn't avoid Mrs. Hudson, and he didn't really want to. She was grieving too, and he visited the grave with her a few times.

Other times, he went alone.

He was surprised at how easy it was for him to approach the gravesite and stand over his dead friend, considering he couldn't go anywhere near Baker Street. Or the Yard. Or Barts.

The grief was bad, but the anger was worse. He felt sick and cold whenever he thought of the injustice of it all—how the world had so quickly turned against his friend and driven him to death. He still didn't understand what had happened, how it had happened, how he had _let _it happen.

And now, he was right back where he had started from.

He didn't know what he was supposed to do next.


	7. Back

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Back**

The text was simple and short, but it told him what he needed to know. He was almost ashamed at the amount of relief he felt upon seeing it. But he couldn't help it.

He still had a little brother.

Growing up, Mycroft had always resented his brother's ability to do the impossible and escape the inescapable. Cribs had been no match for the little hellion. Neither had the locks on Mycroft's doors… or windows… or lock boxes… That trait had never changed. The man could still escape anything, be it a pair of handcuffs or a highly secured cell.

Of course he had cheated death.

Well then.

It was time to get to work.

He couldn't reveal that his brother still lived—not yet. But there were hurts he could soothe, bridges he could repair. Because Mycroft new that the work and the sacrifices of his brother would mean nothing if his world fell apart while he was away. The elder Holmes had distanced himself from his brother's acquaintances since the events at St. Bartholomew's. No more.

And if the prodigal son was going to return, it would be best if the world didn't think of him as the worst criminal London had ever seen.

Mycroft had a thing or two to share with the good people at Scotland Yard.


	8. Box

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Box**

The package was inconspicuous enough. It was large, but plain and white, addressed to D.I. Lestrade at the Yard with no return address.

Naturally, it was looked at carefully to make sure it wasn't dangerous. After that, it sat in Lestrade's office untouched, since the inspector himself wasn't keeping regular hours.

Sally Donovan waited a day before opening it.

At first, she thought its contents were case notes and surveillance videos, but they weren't tracking a crime.

They were tracking a life.

There were reams of credit card receipts and bills, pages of transcripted conversations, and stacks of photos.

And then there were the videos.

The footage ranged from CCTV cameras to what looked like spy cameras. There weren't just a few hours filmed; there were days, months, _years_ recorded. They told the story of a brilliant man with an uncontainable intellect. His knowledge spilled out everywhere, almost against his will, but he used his abilities to help people instead of taking advantage of them. And he had one loyal friend who turned up one day and then stayed through it all.

Sally had never found any proof that the freak had committed a crime, and now this package turned up tracking almost every waking moment of his life going back years. Disturbing as it was…

It proved he was innocent.


	9. Bridges Rebuilt

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Bridges Rebuilt**

The sky was dull and grey. It was either dusk or dawn—Lestrade didn't know or care which. For the last few weeks, he had barely left his flat, but once again, there wasn't a drop left in his house. So, keeping his head down, he got to the store, grabbed the first few bottles he saw, and went to the cashier, handing over his card.

"It's no good."

"What?" Lestrade glanced up at the store worker, who was giving his card back.

"I ran it twice, it's not working."

"Oh. Here," he said, handing the man a different card.

"That one's not working either."

"What? That's ridiculous!" True, it had been a rough few weeks, but he hadn't missed paying any bills.

"Look, the machine's not taking them. You got another way of paying?"

The D.I. patted down his pockets but knew it was useless. Leaving the alcohol on the counter, he turned and strode out of the store.

The light was growing. Dawn then.

Lestrade walked aimlessly, taking the path of least resistance, turning whenever he hit a stoplight. Somehow, he found himself facing a vast green lawn dotted with somber markers. A short, sandy-haired figure stood stiffly before one of the gravestones.

Bracing himself, Lestrade went forward.

It was time to stop hiding.

Time to make things right.


	10. Bear Out

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Bear Out**

"What are you looking at?"

Anderson watched as Sally jumped slightly. He wasn't surprised that she hadn't heard him coming; she seemed fully absorbed in the files spread before her. Still, she recovered quickly and handed a stack of papers to him.

"Have a look," she said.

At first, Anderson didn't know what he was looking at, but as he read, realization dawned.

"Are these—"

"Highly detailed recovers of the freak's movements for the past five years? Seems so."

"Where did they come from?"

"No clue. All I know is that someone sent them to the boss."

"So the kidnapping. Did he…?"

Sally shook her head.

"No. He was who he said he was. Solved all of the cases legitimately."

"We were wrong then."

There was silence between them for a moment before Anderson spoke again.

"So… Richard Brook or James Moriarty or whoever he is—"

"Yeah, there's a lot about him in here too," Donovan said, pulling forward one of the files.

"He shot himself when—"

"Yes," Sally cut in firmly, "Honestly, I don't know what to make of any of this, or what we're supposed to do about it now."

Anderson looked around at the mess of evidence before him for a long moment. Then, he sat and began to read.

"Simple. We find the truth."


	11. Brighter

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

**Brighter**

The first time Mrs. Hudson heard familiar footsteps on the stair, she waited too long. She only glimpsed a sandy head ducking back onto the street by the time she left her rooms.

The second and third time, she waited, hoping he would knock at her door on his way up.

The fourth time, he did.

The fifth time, he came with that D.I. from the Yard. Mrs. Hudson hadn't thought she could forgive him after everything, but the grief in his eyes and the support in his actions and the gratitude in John's voice changed her mind.

The sixth, seventh, and eighth time there's laughter and tears as they look through the books and slides and microscopes. Then they go through the rest of the house, tidying and remembering. John and Mrs. Hudson are always there, and sometimes others come as well. Under the unused bed, they find a jar of human nail trimmings that glow. In the toilet tank, there's a tray of crystals that they decide to leave alone. The loose floorboard in the lower bedroom produces a stack of photos that it takes days to go through, and their eyes aren't exactly dry the whole time, but somehow they feel better after, more hopeful.

Now, she's lost track of her count.

One of her boys is back.


	12. Better

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

* * *

**Better**

Silence stretched between the two men.

They had never really been friends. There was no understanding between them. How could Order make sense Rebellion, or Action comprehend Idleness? Now, the one thing that had united them was gone—they were nothing more than opposing forces.

The weaker force yielded first.

"I didn't think you would want to see me."

"I don't," the other man replied simply.

And once more, silence reigned.

"Understand, Dr. Watson, that I am not used to having my time wasted. I am making allowances for grief, but my patience is wearing thin. You came here for a purpose. What is it that you want?"

John was silent for a long moment before replying.

"Your brother's death was your fault," he said bluntly. "I'm angry about that. I expect I'll be angry for a long time. But I've seen what you've done, what you're doing. His name has been cleared, and by Anderson and Donovan, no less. Greg's credit cards work fine, except when he tries to by liquor. And all of Mrs. Hudson's bills have disappeared. I know you're doing that, and I'm grateful, and… hating you isn't doing me any good. So… I don't. Hate you."

With that, John stood abruptly and left.

Relief flooded his chest as he finally let himself forgive _both_ Holmes brothers.

* * *

_AN: Hi. I've been off getting married. Back now :) I'm going to finish this story and start on a new one in the same style, but with more dialogue and action. Enjoy!_


	13. Buried

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

* * *

**Buried**

He watched.

He watched as they struggled and grieved, these people he had come to care about.

He watched as his brother steered them all out of despair and back towards each other, a favor he had never asked for but couldn't help feeling a little grateful for.

Each of his friends had found peace in their own way. There was forgiveness, and there was reconciliation, and all that other emotional nonsense that turned out to actually be important.

He watched them move on without him.

It was annoying.

Of course he didn't want them to stay miserable, that would be absurd. Their feelings really shouldn't be affecting him at all.

But they did. And it felt less like annoyance and more like…

Pain.

He wanted to be a part of the healing. To join them in recovering normalcy. To laugh again.

But it wasn't safe. His enemies were still out there, still able to carry out Moriarty's last order if he turned up alive. He had to track them and bring them down from the shadows, undetected.

He had to be a ghost.

But soon, he would have them all. The last pieces of the Great Game would be swept off the board, and he would find his place once more and start anew.

Until then, he could only watch.

* * *

_AN: The first chapter of my new story "The Empty Room" should be up sometime this week. It'll have a bit more action, and I may not keep to a word limit. We'll see. To those of you who reviewed and continue to review: You are glowing stars that dance gracefully in the darkness of cyberspace. I wouldn't be writing a sequel to this if not for you. Thank you!_


End file.
